Visitations
by ValaEnVash
Summary: A collection of 221B shorts while I wait for new episodes. Yes, it is marked complete but I'll keep adding more as I pen them. Rated 'M' just in case. John/Sherlock, Lestrade/Mycroft, etc.
1. Dark Moments

_**I do not own 'Sherlock' or any of the characters therein. I have only temporarily taken them out to play. Please don't sue. Thanks!**_

_**The stories found here will be a collection of '221B' shorts. Yes, it is marked 'COMPLETE', but it is anything but finished. So, keep an eye out for more and feel free to msg me and ideas you have. I'll be happy to accept anything you might wish to share!**_

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Once upon a time, when John Watson was still a young and mostly inexperienced soldier and doctor, he held the hand of a fellow soldier as she bled her life out. As it turns out, your life _can_ end thousands of miles away, days before you know it.

Major Alice Carstairs left her husband and two beautiful children to finish her final deployment before being discharged. Unfortunately, Fate, it seemed, had other ideas when the lorry overturned, rolled over her family vehicle as Morgan Carstairs drove their daughters to school one bright morning.

It took four days for her to be notified.

Ten years later, John had held a number of hands as the pain and grief overwhelmed so many of his comrades. While he himself had his own "dark moments", he'd never given up, never given into temptation.

Three years after that, John knew how his injured fellow soldiers felt: useless, worthless. Forgotten.

And then he met Sherlock Holmes.

John gave thanks every day, even through the nightmares and post-traumatic stress, through murders, smugglers, bombs, blackmail, running, and insane experiments. He was thankful. Because Sherlock gave him back his life. And when the day came that the running stopped and those lies became everyone else's "Truth", when Sherlock decided to take all John's life away from him again... God.

_**Bastard.**_


	2. It Had To Get Better

_**I do not own 'Sherlock' or any of the characters therein. I have only temporarily taken them out to play. Please don't sue. Thanks!**_

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Captain John Watson, former doctor and soldier in Her Majesty's Royal Army Medical Corps, held his Browning L9A1 in his left hand, debating. He'd cleaned his weapon just hours before; dismantling, brushing, oiling, then putting it all back together again.

His weapon. His choice.

Cool metal, warmed by the grip of his hand, shook ever so slightly, showing the tremor he'd gained that had ruined his career. If he intended to proceed, he'd need a much steadier hand.

Sighing, John placed the safety back on and stored it once more in his desk.

Ella insisted he write in that infernal blog. About what? How his sister was slowly drinking herself to death? How his neighbor, Marcus Abernathy, had slit his wrists earlier that day, and how John had been the one to find him? Maybe he'd write about how angry he'd been that Marcus had given up. Or maybe that John had been jealous Marcus had the bollocks to actually go through with it?

No. He'd take a walk, grab a coffee, mail the letter to Harry he'd been meaning to send off.

One last look around the small bedsit that held the entirety of his life earned a sigh and a promise: He would swallow the hurt, work through the pain. Because somehow, some way, it _HAD_ to get better.


	3. Sheep Eyes In The Kettle

_**I do not own 'Sherlock' or any of the characters therein. I have only temporarily taken them out to play. Please don't sue. Thanks!**_

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It's amazing what a week can do for a person. In Sherlock Holmes' case, he'd stopped a serial killer, discovered a murderous 'fan', gotten a flatmate, and found a truly excellent Thai restaurant. All in all, a good week. And this John Watson fellow fascinated Sherlock. Sherlock expected one reaction from John, but, as he would soon find out, John would keep him on his toes and rarely conform to what Sherlock expected.

Case in point: John, in his steadfast manner, finds sheep eyes in the kettle, slams the lid back on, rechecks to ensure he's not gone round the bend, replaces the top, clenches his eyes shut, sighs. Then, instead of yelling at his new flatmate, grabs a clean mug, fills it with water from the tap, removes the cow eyes from the microwave, and heats water for his morning cuppa.

Meanwhile, Sherlock watched from the shadows, cataloging John's reactions and expressions as they flit across his face. _Interesting_, he thinks.

That evening, after chasing down another criminal for Lestrade, Sherlock heard the stirrings of John's unconscious mind in whimpers and sobs. In apology for the day's stress, Sherlock lifted his violin and tucked it under his chin, sending up silvered notes to his distressed flatmate. He smiled softly as John calmed, allowing the music to settle his dreams.

_Brilliant..._


End file.
